5. Jude
Tuesday, October 10th
Office coffee never quite hits the spot.
Even though it’s only the second on-site workday, it’s starting to feel like a comfortable part of my routine. Wilder gave each team the freedom to decide their own on-site workday. I emailed the team first thing on Monday, and everyone agreed that Tuesday would work best this week.
I check my watch. Thirty minutes to spare. Standing in the kitchenette, I tap my fingertips on the countertop, then take a sip of the scalding mud that this office considers coffee.
We’re meeting with our client to kick off our first project using the new system. They’re an electronics company looking for an e-commerce site after having recently rebranded. The client brief was, well, brief. They gave us practically nothing to go off of, so it should be a fun time.
Kind of like pulling teeth.
The worst part is that it will be me, Lucienne, and the client. That’s it. As the only web designer on our team, she will be responsible for capturing the client’s vision and delivering a site that represents who they are.
She and I need to be a team here and I’ve admittedly been avoiding her all day.
I ran the fuck away after almost knocking her flat on her ass at the co-op. I’ve become a bit of a jinx it seems because all I’ve done thus far is ensure Lucienne has negative, embarrassing experiences around me and with me. She looked like she was about to cry, which is why I handed over her things and practically sprinted out into the cool fall afternoon.
The rush of crisp air opened my lungs and allowed me to catch my breath. I almost ran this woman down. I’ve made her mad and I’ve made her nearly cry. If she didn’t hate me before, she probably does now.
Today she’s sitting by the window, her head down, focused on her work. Occasionally, she rests her chin in the palm of her hand and sighs, looking out over the pond. I stare longer than I should, watching her frown at her computer screen or scrunch her nose. The afternoon light dances through her curls, revealing stripes of chestnut and gold.
There’s nothing I can do about it.
I want to know her.
I want there to be at least one happy memory between the two of us, even if it’s just so we can work together amicably for the next month. I’ve made everything awkward enough, so I’m going to take it upon myself to remedy it.
I need to make sure we’re on the same page today. I look up at the ceiling and sigh. “Get your shit together, Jude,” I whisper to myself.
I dump the rest of my coffee and check myself. There is an increased risk of something being spilled or thrown at this point, so I’m not taking that chance. No spills, no tears, not a thread out of place. Should I ditch the suit jacket? Maybe the tie?
No, fuck it. It doesn’t matter.
I take a few deep breaths as I walk over to her desk. I’m careful to keep my distance, trying not to startle her. She seems like a jumpy person and better safe than sorry after all.
She’s typing up an email but notices me hovering and slowly turns in her chair to face me head on. It’s a good thing my arm is draped over the edge of the cubicle divider. Otherwise, I would have toppled over.
Lucienne is fiercely and wonderfully beautiful.
She arches an eyebrow, her legs crossed. Her brown suede skirt, black tights, and orange turtleneck hug every curve of her body so deliciously, I desperately want to press my lips to every inch of skin she’s hiding beneath those clothes.
Stop it. Calm down.
But I can’t. The thought of her legs wrapped around my waist, my hands kneading her ass as I grind against her, our mouths devouring one another—
“Can I help you with something?” she asks. And I’m brought back to earth, really damn quick.
I cough into my hand. “Excuse me. Hi, Lucienne. Could we maybe talk for a few minutes about the client? Perhaps we can review the client brief and come up with an agenda—”
She cuts me off, jumping to her feet. “Sure.”
Okay, then.
“Great. Thank you. Let’s sit over there.”
She scoops up her laptop and follows me to a set of cushiony armchairs tucked away from the rows of cubicles. Her unexpected enthusiasm makes my heart flutter. Or maybe it was just an arrhythmia. A hint of a smile on her pretty little face made me react so viscerally—that’s… Well, that’s something.
Yeah, I’m going with an arrhythmia.
That’s fine. I’ll get it checked out soon.
The armchairs are seated closer to one another than I thought, and our knees knock as we sit. She folds into herself, holding her laptop to her chest and clenching her jaw. My mouth is dry and I wish I had ditched this fucking suit jacket now.
I open my laptop and pull up the client brief. “I’ve reviewed what they’ve given us and honestly, from my perspective, it’s not much. But you’re the designer, so I wanted to get your take on it.”
Lucienne clicks her tongue and nods. “You’re right. It leaves a lot to be desired,” she says.
“Glad I wasn’t too far off base with my assumption.”
She shakes her head. “They don’t seem to know what they want, which somewhat works in our favor. So my goal is to figure that out today.”
This is going far better than I thought it would. Maybe this is my shot to salvage things.
“Lucienne, I—I want to formally apologize. We—uh—we started off on the wrong foot. I want us to be able to work together and I felt like we needed to clear the air. You were rightfully angry with me and I should have maybe been less standoffish.” I sharply inhale as I take in her expression.
She’s incredibly still and staring at me, unblinking. Then she bites her bottom lip and shrugs.
Tell me what you’re thinking.
I’m willing her to speak because I need this to just work itself out. I hope I didn’t sound disingenuous. I meant every word and I don’t want her to feel like I’m pacifying her or something. I probably could have said more but—
“I—I appreciate that. And I wasn’t angry at you,” she responds.
Until now, I didn’t realize I was holding my breath. She wasn’t—isn’t—angry at me? Thank fuck for that.
Alright, say something, you idiot.
She’s fidgeting with her laptop, but now she’s looking down at her feet. The desire to reassure her that there’s nothing to be embarrassed about is—it’s insatiably strong. I recognize anxiety when I see it and I want to help ease it, if that’s even possible.
Scrambling to fill the extended silence between us, I try to reiterate. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Lucienne. I owed you an—”
I stop because she inhales sharply and shakes her head. “Well, you’re doing it again. Please, can we just talk about this meeting? We have ten minutes,” she says hurriedly.
She opens her laptop without looking at me and I don’t know what to do. I gape at her and shake my head in disbelief. What else am I going to do? I need her to meet me halfway. Otherwise the next month is going to be hell.
I tug on my dress shirt, pulling it away from my chest. I need to get my head on straight for this meeting, and her unwillingness or inability to work through this with me is something I need to worry about later. I’m feeling even worse about this and right now it’s as if I’ve exhausted all possible solutions.
Shifting my focus back to my work is my best bet. A welcomed distraction, something to pour my energy into.
“Sure. Yeah.”
But we aren’t done.
I’m not going to let her feel this way because of me.
No way.
The sun is already setting as Lucienne and I pack up our things in the conference room. This side of the work has always been something that intrigues me.
We decided I would take on more of a logistics role when speaking with the client since, after all, I’m a project manager. Mainly I was there for support because, as the designer, it was up to Lucienne to identify the client’s needs, goals, likes, dislikes—anything that can help us to start working on their new site.
Going into that meeting, I was honestly annoyed at the entire situation. But once Lucienne started working, I was awestruck. Unlike in our short-lived conversations, she navigated a few contentious moments with ease.
The way she expressed genuine care for the client’s concerns, reaffirmed their vision (though it was bare bones and practically nonexistent), and ended up chatting about Halloween movies by the end of it like old friends was amazing.
Lucienne has an incredible way of making others feel heard and valued.
I envy her.
She knew when to pull back and give them the space to speak. She knew when to push just a bit more to grab what she needed to create what she needs to create. Her notebook was filled with scribbles and doodles, early paper prototypes, and page layouts.
Seeing what makes her tick, what impassions her, what makes her eyes sparkle with anticipation was a privilege.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and make sure the telecommunications system is powered off for the evening. “That was pretty incredible, what you did. They had no idea what they wanted, but you found a way to lead them to it. I don’t think I could have done that nearly as well as you did.” I give her a weak smile.
Her hands come to a stop as she’s packing away her things. She’s scowling. It’s not my business, but I can’t stop myself.
I sigh. “Was it something I said? Look, I’ve never been able to sit in on a call like that with anyone on the web design team. I respect the work you all do and I have no idea how it’s done, so thank you—”
“You don’t need to tell me you have no idea how I do my work. That much is crystal clear,” she says curtly, cutting me off midsentence.
She’s developing a habit of doing that, it seems. She is starting to hit a nerve and I’m doing my best to remain professional.
“I’m sorry? What’s that supposed to mean?” My brows pull together and I frown. We’ve both had a very long day and I’ve made an effort to start fresh. She, on the other hand, seems dead set on making this hard.
Lucienne huffs and walks past me through the conference room door but stops and pivots to look over her shoulder.
“This new system, these templates, make people in my position useless. We could hand that client a template with their branding copied and pasted and they wouldn’t know the difference. You don’t need me for that,” she explains coolly.
Her glare is venomous and as much as I feel my own sense of frustration building, the desire to catch her bottom lip between my teeth roars loudly. To pull that orange sweater over her head and kiss her breathless.
I’m nearly shaking with anger as I stare back at her. She is unmoving, a force to be reckoned with, a tidal wave of fury waiting to crash down over me.
She digs into her pocket and checks her phone. Uh oh. Nope, that’s not a good look. That’s quickly confirmed when she nearly throws it to the floor, but instead rapidly taps the screen to type out a text.
“Great. And we were here so late, my ride bailed.”
Well, I’m either stupid or batshit crazy.
But here we go.
“Come on. I’ll take you home,” I say.
Her eyes are the size of saucers and her mouth hangs open. She’s crossed her arms amid her verbal lashing, but her body relaxes just enough for me to notice.
Your move, Amato.
Check and mate.
I don’t play chess, but the expression applies here, I think.
“What?”
“I’m taking you home,” I repeat.
“I can just call an Uber or something—”
“I’m offering. And you clearly have a lot to say and I’m a willing ear.”
I can see the gears churning in her head. There are way too many emotions whipping across her face for me to decipher what she’s thinking.
We’re in a legitimate staring contest and I will not be the one to look away. I need her to know I mean what I say, that I want to take in anything and everything she’s willing to reveal to me. I take a deep breath and shrug as I drop my hands into my pockets.
Push and pull.
Maybe she needs a push.
I sprinkle in a little self-deprecation. “You can tell me about more things I don’t know.”
Lucienne sighs in opposition or contemplation; I can’t figure out which. It makes her curls bounce on her shoulders. Then her expression changes and she is twisting her fingers into the hem of her sweater.
It’s her move.
I’ll take the hit. If she tells me to fuck off, then I’ll make sure she gets in her Uber safely and head home. I will find a way to pretend that none of this ever happened and—
“Fine… thank you,” she breathes.
We climb into my car in complete silence. When she slides into the passenger seat, she tentatively looks around. It’s like she’s taking inventory of every little detail. There’s a curiosity that’s barely visible in the moonlight spilling through the windshield.
“Just direct me where I need to go. You don’t need to tell me the address if you aren’t comfortable doing so,” I offer.
She looks at me skeptically, but her expression softens as she nods, tucking her bag into her lap. I pull out of the empty parking lot and turn on the heat. It’s fall, alright. The nights are getting more frigid and the coolness of my leather seats send a shiver through my body.
“23 Clarke Street.”
I tap my phone, mounted on the dash, and plug in her address in my GPS. My heart just fell out of my ass because I don’t need a GPS to know where her street is. I live a few blocks down, near the lake.
Walking to the co-op is usually the only exercise I get. It’s all uphill and in the summer, it feels like the equivalent of running a marathon. I don’t want her to feel unsafe in any way by revealing I live so close by, so I keep the GPS on and follow it accordingly.
Minutes of silence pass and the tension, ironically enough, is dissipating. Lucienne seems to be allowing her body to melt into the heated seats as her eyes flutter shut. I grip the steering wheel tight at the thought of having her thigh pressed into the palm of my hand.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier. It’s not your problem,” she murmurs.
I startle when I hear her voice. I steal a quick glance and she’s resting her forehead on the window.
“Not too happy about the changes?”
She turns to me, her face contorted with frustration.
“No, I’m not. It’s like Wilder has just decided to remove creative from our solutions. Templates make everything standardized and same-y. It’s stifling and it makes me upset,” she admits.
I can hear that she’s trying to keep her voice steady. I’m entirely powerless and, for some reason, I want to be the one to fix it.
She needs to feel heard.
“That’s an awful feeling. I’m—”
“Jude, please don’t say you’re sorry. This isn’t your fault, so you don’t need to apologize to me again.” Her response is abrupt but gentle.
The streets are no longer lined with commercial buildings, but houses and apartment buildings as we take a few turns here and there. Her face comes in and out of view under the streetlights, highlighting her soft features. A curl lazily falls on her cheek.
“I’m not apologizing because I feel responsible. I’m apologizing because that’s a shitty feeling. My job isn’t creative. It’s all strategic planning. I don’t have a creative bone in my body, to be frank, but I would imagine feeling like you can’t do what you love and what you’re good at because you feel constrained or boxed in must be lousy.”
Instead of looking over at her, I run a hand through my hair. I left it loose today because tying it back would only make my anxiety-induced headaches ten times worse.
That’s it. She feels restricted.
This system has locked her in a cage and all she wants to do is fly.
“Yes, exactly. And having a client who won’t know the difference between a templated site and one designed from scratch, it made me—I took it out on you. I’m sorry I did that,” she sighs.
When I look at her, she’s smiling at me and for the first time since we got in the car—the first time ever—I smell toasted vanilla and cinnamon.
Christ, she smells more like fall than the evening air.
“Thank you, Lucienne. That was definitely something I didn’t know,” I laugh.
When she laughs, it’s light and untamed.
I like it.
“How do you feel about the whole system change?” she asks timidly.
Her question wasn’t what I was expecting. If I’m being honest, it doesn’t really impact me at all. Sure, I’m on a new team, but my role pretty much stays the same. I may have helped set it up, but I didn’t have the same context that Lucienne does. I’m not a designer, so this new tool was just something I had to learn in order to oversee and manage a development project.
I sigh. “Well, I admit I don’t feel as gung ho about it after hearing how it effects your work. In my position, things haven’t changed all that much.”
She nods, satisfied with my answer. “That makes sense.” She exhales sharply. “Again, I’m sorry. This change has been a lot for me.”
“And on top of having to be in-office too.” I’m letting my own anxiety slip through a little.
She laughs again and God, I like that sound.
“Yes, yes that too. The day—the elevator debacle. It was my first time being in an office, ever. I’ve been remote since I started working. You caught me on a really bad day. It was the perfect storm.”
And I scared her and made her spill her coffee all over the damn place. Brilliant.
“I owe you a coffee.” It’s all I can think to say without profusely apologizing again.
When I look at her, she’s smiling ear to ear. “Do you want to take my order now or later?”
“Now,” I respond.
“Tall iced caramel macchiato with a double shot of espresso from Starbucks.”
I tap my temple. “Got it.”
“Steel trap memory?”
“Absolutely not. You’ll need to tell me again so I can write it down.”
I flick the directional as we take another turn. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m anxious being in the office too.”
She turns to me with an arched eyebrow. “Really? You—you seem very poised and confident. I wouldn’t have guessed.”
I take a deep breath. Talking about my anxiety is usually embarrassing, especially with new people, but I like Lucienne despite our rocky start and she is letting her guard down, so maybe I will too.
“Thank you, but I’m not. Not all the time. Public speaking is a huge trigger for me and being in an office full of people kind of is too. A bit of social anxiety. We’re both just trying to do our best, it seems.”
“That presentation must have been difficult,” she says thoughtfully. Almost to herself.
“It was,” I admit.
She shifts her body a bit in her seat to face me. “Next time, I’ll put out a company-wide memo telling everyone to show up in their underwear.”
“What?”
“Growing up, I was always told to imagine everyone in their underwear if I was nervous public speaking. You won’t have to imagine it.” She shrugs.
And I burst out laughing.
“I like the way you think. Might be some kind of HR violation, but it would be funny.”
We stop at a red light and I can’t help but steal small glances of her in the passenger seat. I like where this is going, how in a single ride home, we’re starting over. It feels like this is what we should have been doing from the beginning. But it’s almost better this way.
“After our numerous awkward encounters, which were all my fault by the way, you being on my team made me really nervous.” I swallow around the lump in my throat. We might as well air it all out now.
The sudden warmth of her hand on my arm makes my jaw tick. “I was nervous too. I thought for sure you hated me after the way I reacted.”
She pulls her hand back in her lap, twisting the hem of her sweater. I want her to do that again.
“I thought the same, but I wouldn’t have blamed you,” I laugh. And then we laugh together because what a series of unfortunate, weird events that we allowed to almost decide the trajectory of our working relationship.
Ridiculous.
We turn onto Clarke Street and her house comes into view. Parking my car near the curb, I turn off the engine and wait. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. She doesn’t immediately get out. Is she waiting for something?
“Thank you for hearing me out. You didn’t have to. Also, I definitely don’t hate you. Actually, I like you. This was all just a huge misunderstanding,” she says.
“It was my pleasure, on all fronts. And I like you too, Lucienne. A lot, actually.” I swallow.
She hasn’t reached for her bag, which she discarded on the floor at some point during our drive. Lucienne is turned to me, those eyes illuminated in a sliver of moonlight, twinkling like stardust.
“I know your house is right there, but can I walk you to your door? I’ll feel better knowing you get inside safely.”
She nods and we reach for our respective door handles. The sound of my dress shoes on the pavement echoes down the road as we walk to her front door.
The building looks like it’s been converted into separate apartments. In the moonlight, the door looks like a deep burgundy, the paint peeling from years of exposure to the elements. It has a lot of charm.
Lucienne retrieves her keys from her bag.
“This is me,” she giggles. “Thank you for the ride too. You saved me like $20 easily. Um, I know I may sound like a broken record, but I am sorry for how I’ve acted. Evidence to the contrary, I’m not actually a rude person.”
I could kiss her.
Not the urgent, desperate, consuming kind of kiss. The careful, savoring kind of kiss. The kind of kiss you feel deep in your bones.
I could, but I don’t.
“You’re welcome. And I’d like to think I knew that, despite the evidence to the contrary, as you say. It’s water under the bridge. And thank you for giving me the underwear visual. I’m going to hold onto that one,” I laugh.
We’re standing inches from one another, our toes almost touching. And before she turns to head inside, we hold each other’s gaze for a long moment.
Something feels like it’s clicking into place.
“So, can we maybe start over? Pretend like all of this embarrassing nonsense never happened. I’d really like that,” she says, catching her bottom lip between her teeth.
“We definitely can. I’d like that too, Lucienne.”
Here’s my do-over.
“Goodnight, Jude.”
“Goodnight, Lucienne.”